A Never Ending War
by Sxvgwii
Summary: The Imperial War has brought havoc to everyone, but none more so than Alfred F. Jones. But as he thinks that his luck may be running out, he finds that there is something else that keeps pulling him back. Terrible summary. USUK; Rated M for violence and language; SpaceAU


**Warnings: Graphic violence, blood, emotional and physical pain, and swearing.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or anything mentioned.**

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_**Prologue **_

White blinding light and the screams of agony rush through his head, pounding upon his ear drums without constraint. There is the sickening sound of flesh sizzling as white hot heat courses through his body. It is a paralyzing pain as it burns through his flesh and to his core, destroying him from every possible angle. He wants to scream, cry, or just do anything; but he can't. His body refuses to respond. Eyes the color of a cloudless sky watch in horror as the hull is breached and bodies are flung into the silent vacuum of space. He can see their mouths open in horror as they scream desperately, but their screams fall upon deaf ears. He can feel his own body being wretched out into the open cavity of the ship's hull, but a force is holding him back. Silence invades his senses and he feels his body quickly suffocating in the emptiness, floating weightless in the air towards nothingness, but tethered down by an unknown force. It has been three seconds before the ship's emergency system finally slams an airlock shut, cutting off the breach from the rest of the ship and effectively maintaining the loss of gravity which slams his body onto the hard floor.

Noise begins to filter into his senses again as his mind is able to register the screaming alarms and the mechanical voice that repeats, "Breach on the Deck". Pain courses through his body and yet he feels warm and cold at the same time. There is certain warmth pooling around his left side, however the rest of his body is beginning to feel heavy and frozen. Darkness begins to close in around the edges of his vision and the noises begin to filter out as quickly as they had come. He is aware of another's voice screaming at him, a pressure being on his side as the person begins screaming for something. The blackness closes in and those eyes that remind of the perfect summer days look over to the person leaning over him. The man looks like a devil with his blindingly white hair and ruby red eyes as he screams at him. His voice is gone and all he can see is the other's mouth moving, his face becoming panicked. The man on the floor offers a small smile, just a quirk of his lips before the blackness takes over.

And there is nothing more than deafening silence.

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Pain has become his newfound friend. It's the only thing that lets him know that he is alive.

His skin burns as it did the last time and his body is stiff and sore. He feels as if he is on fire, but there is no heat – just resolute pain that radiates to his core. He wants to scream in agony, but his body has betrayed him as it lies still and silent. It feels as if he hasn't moved in weeks and his muscles are deteriorating. His inside burn; he hears and smells the sizzling sound of flesh and it makes him want to scream even if he can't feel it. His eyes are closed and all that he can take in are the sounds of machinery whirring around him along with the occasional beep coming from his left. His throat feels dry and the hiss of oxygen forcing its way into his nostrils let him know there's something over his face. He tries to will his eyes open, but they feel like lead weights and he eventually gives up – resolving himself to the fact that he is dying.

And that is strangely comforting.

He hears a murmur come from his side and then a soft curse. Pain envelops him as it feels as if something has crawled inside of him, weaving throughout his organs and shredding them into pieces. He tries to scream, but no sound will part from him. It feels as if he is being stabbed to death over and over again as the pain surrounds each of his organs. He feels cold again and there he is, alone with his subconscious as it replays scenes from the Imperial War.

_Houses burning and children screaming over the dead bodies of their families. Women running from houses on fire as they cradle their infants in their arms, trying to rush to a safety that they will never reach. The sounds of gunfire and screams as he ducks behind a boulder to reload his own weapon. Beside him is a young man who looks scared; but of course they're all scared – they were in the middle of a war, and on the losing side. The other man catches his gaze and stares at him wide-eyed and he attempts a smile at the other, the simple effort to communicate that it will be alright. The youth smiles back, but suddenly that smile is gone as half of his face is ripped off with a single shot of arsenal. Blood and bits of flesh splatter his face as he stares at the mangled body before it slips down to the ground, lying in a growing pool of blood. His once tanned face that was so full of sunny expression is now covered in dirt, grime, and blood as he shoulders his weapon and dives out into the front of the attack once more; taking down an enemy whenever he is able as he hurries to his next recovery spot._

Pain sears through his body and brings him out of his revelry and to the present as he stares at the back of his eyelids, his mind trying to formulate what is happening to his body. He feels as if he is on death's door step as coldness overtakes his body. His heartbeat is weak and his will to fight this endless of war is fading. He lost his family and loved ones. He had always sworn to never give up; that they could take whatever they wanted from him. They could take his freedom, his voice, his job, his love, and even his life. But they would never break him. No, they would never be able to take away his will or his spirit. He had heard it said once before in the midst of the war, an older man singing in the midst of the gunfire from behind a rock, and over the years, it had become his personal motto, "_you can't take the sky from me."_

Alfred F. Jones was never one to give up and he certainly wasn't going down without a fight.

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**A/N: To those who are following **_**Jones**_**, have no fear – I will continue working on it. But I adore Science Fiction, so I desired to write one. Plus, I've been re-watching Firefly…and well, we all know how that ends. This is for all-purposes going to be a short story. Little longer than a one-shot, but not a full-blown story.**

**Reviews are appreciated.**


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